


Not To Be Repeated

by Trobadora



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Enemies With Benefits, Episode Related, M/M, Moriarty is Alive, Moriarty's Suicidal Ideation, Or Is he?, Texting, The Six Thatchers, did you miss me?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-13
Updated: 2020-06-13
Packaged: 2021-03-03 03:27:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,559
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24477925
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Trobadora/pseuds/Trobadora
Summary: After the "Did you miss me?" videoclip, Sherlock is watching for hints of the posthumous game Moriarty seems to have set up, waiting for it to begin. What he doesn't expect is a text:Figured it out yet, Sherlock? - JM x
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/Jim Moriarty
Comments: 16
Kudos: 64
Collections: Holmestice Exchange - Summer 2020





	Not To Be Repeated

**Author's Note:**

  * For [simplyclockwork](https://archiveofourown.org/users/simplyclockwork/gifts).



> Happy Holmestice!

Whatever Mrs Hudson says, Sherlock isn't _pacing_. He's attempting to use physical movement to overcome mental inertia, since external stimulus happens to be lacking. Nothing is happening, least of all the one thing he's waiting for - that he's been primed for, for the last two weeks.

 _Did you miss me?_ Moriarty's voice asks, the short clip of desaturated video replaying in Sherlock's memory. Moriarty's face everywhere, and then - nothing. 

Is it any wonder he's impatient? Even if Sherlock were pacing, it would be entirely justified. Baker Street is boring. All the little cases that are coming his way lately are boring. He's read all the papers, spoken to all his contacts, taken in every bit of information he could, and now he's reduced to merely awaiting new data. Nothing but waiting. 

Sherlock Holmes hates waiting. (Not because he's bad at it: because it's boring.)

His mind may be turning in circles, rather like his body in the confines of his living room. Body and mind in synch, right there - support for his approach, isn't it? Not that the - all right - pacing is getting him anywhere.

Dull, humdrum, tedious - _boring._

Sherlock throws himself onto the sofa. Great, now he's sulking. Not that he hasn't been for a good ten days now - John's pointed it out, even, and Mary agreed. So what if they're right? Sherlock kicks a socked foot against the upholstery, restless but not ready to stand up again. 

Yes, boring, and doubly so when he's holding out for something better - when he knows something big is coming. It's only a matter of time - he has only to wait until the quivers of the web become noticeable. Any moment now, the spider's own movements will become visible to him at last, and then -

Sherlock grimaces. And then what?

It's been thrumming under his skin since the first look he got at Moriarty's little video: he wants it and he doesn't. He wants it and he _shouldn't_.

He hadn't cared about that, three years ago. Disconcerting, that comparison. 

At any rate, there's no trace of Moriarty's game so far. Clever of him, setting up a posthumous one. That videoclip on every screen in the country - irresistible. A promise of more. But why is Moriarty waiting? Trying to drive Sherlock insane with boredom? If so, he's succeeding.

Except it isn't Moriarty, is it? It's someone else using his face, his voice, his plan. Sherlock narrows his eyes at the ceiling. There's a chemical stain up there from last week's experiment. Mrs Hudson hasn't noticed it yet. ( _Is_ it Moriarty's plan? Sherlock can't be certain. He's assumed it so far. It's the likeliest hypothesis. And yet.)

Sherlock's phone chimes. He turns sideways on the sofa to pull it out of his pocket: a text, from an unfamiliar number.

 **Figured it out yet, Sherlock?  
JM x**

The rush of adrenaline is instantaneous. Sherlock's lips part, and he licks them. Moriarty's face, and now his name. Well, initials. Same difference, isn't it? 

Sherlock's eyes remain fixed on the display, eyebrows drawing together. Anyone can send a text. It means nothing - means even less than that video, the one that, almost certainly, saved Sherlock's life.

He considers the number: unexpectedly, not blocked. Burner phone, obviously. When he rings it back, it goes to voicemail immediately. The standard robotic message asking him to leave a message isn't personalised at all.

Handing the number over to Mycroft is extremely unlikely to produce any useful results; keeping it to himself is a chance to gain more information on his opponent. Whoever it is, impersonating Moriarty.

 _Impersonating Moriarty._ Yes, all right, whether he should be or not, Sherlock is eager to see what posthumous cleverness Moriarty has planned for him - but nonetheless, the thought makes him unaccountably angry. So what if it's on Moriarty's orders? So what if this is, presumably, Moriarty's plan? Moriarty couldn't have known about Magnussen, about the way Sherlock trapped himself by protecting John and Mary. Shooting someone in plain sight. And if he had, Moriarty wouldn't have done _this_. 

Sherlock might have believed it, once, before the Fall. He knows better now.

He throws the phone onto the sofa next to his feet. Yes. That's the problem with Moriarty's posthumous actions, no matter how stimulating the thought: _this_ was never his plan. Moriarty wanted Sherlock _dead_ \- dead with him. Sherlock hadn't realised it until it was too late - not when Moriarty threatened him at the pool, not with Moriarty's dominant left hand at his throat while his other hand did delightful things inside Sherlock's trousers, that day in Karachi, after Sherlock saved Irene's life. Not even when Moriarty told him, looking entirely too creepy, that he owed him a fall. It was all part of their game - or so Sherlock had thought.

A game with very real stakes, yes, but not for _Sherlock_ , not if he kept up. He'd been so sure. Even during Moriarty's trial, Sherlock had looked at him across the court room, had seen the only other person there who knew what was happening: that the trial didn't matter, that it was all part of Moriarty's plan. And he hadn't been able to stop himself from grinning at the man in shared superior understanding.

And Moriarty had been the same, he'd thought. That day at Kitty Riley's when Moriarty had pretended to be Richard Brook, he'd still slipped out of character for a second when no one was looking, just to throw Sherlock a smirk. They were on the same page, Sherlock had thought. It was a grand game, needing only to lower its stakes for other people to become fully delightful without qualification. He'd thought he might have that, with the crown jewels. No one had been hurt during that.

And all the while, Moriarty had been planning Sherlock's downfall, their shared fall. Because no matter how thrilling the game, it couldn't be extended forever, and Moriarty wasn't going to suffer a let-down, not after this.

Sherlock had nearly died for it. Moriarty _had_ died. No, calling Sherlock back from a certain-to-be-lethal mission doesn't fit with anything Moriarty might have planned. Anything that led to Sherlock's death, particularly if Sherlock saw it coming and can't prevent it, would have made him smile: that brilliant, gleeful look of all the pieces falling perfectly into place behind his eyes. He can't have authorised _this_. Using his face to save Sherlock's life is nothing short of an insult to the man's memory.

Sherlock throws his hands into the air, scowls up at the stain on the ceiling. Why does he care what Moriarty wanted? The man was a villain of the worst kind, treating people as puppets - using, abusing and destroying them as he pleased. But the fact remains - Moriarty would not have approved. 

Not unless Moriarty is still alive. _Then_ , of course - 

No. Preposterous. 

And yet, they've never found the body.

Great. Now he's doubting his own conclusions again. Emelia Ricoletti's case convinced Sherlock of what he already knew. But what if he's made a mistake? He's missed things before, with Moriarty. Important things. Life-and-death things.

As Sherlock considers, the memory of a Victorian living room overlays the current one. Moriarty kneels in the middle, fellating that gun, and the memory of Moriarty's mouth on Sherlock's cock is suddenly there, hot and tight and ungentle - a sharp pleasure just on the edge of overstimulation.

Moriarty had only done that once, but afterwards, the memory made a reappearance in Sherlock's dreams with almost embarrassing frequency. If there were a reason to be embarrassed over sex dreams, which there isn't. Not even ones involving Moriarty. _Dreams._ They don't matter.

Sherlock squirms on the sofa. His trousers have grown uncomfortable, and the memory is persistent. Moriarty grinning up at him with too many teeth; Sherlock tightening his grip on Moriarty's hair - it had been a power play, on both sides, and yet, all the while, Sherlock hadn't realised what Moriarty was truly after.

Since Moriarty's death, Sherlock's been trying to let it go. He's never quite been able to make himself. Or make himself want to.

Sherlock grinds the heel of his hand against his crotch.

That image in his mind palace: he'd thought he understood it. A reminder not to overlook the obvious in the face of what he wanted, what his body wanted. Desire, that speck on the lens hindering his view; the virus corrupting his data - yes, all right, part of you might want Moriarty back, that image says, but the truth is that he's dead. That hole in his head. Dead, dead, dead. 

But what if it means something else? 

Perhaps instead it's a reminder that, just because the problem of Moriarty is so much easier to push aside if he's dead, that doesn't mean it's actually true.

Reality, as Mycroft might say, is rarely so convenient.

What has Sherlock missed? He can't repeat his mistakes. No assumptions, this time. Not with Moriarty, not again. 

His stomach clenches. His arousal abates only marginally. Sherlock considers, squeezes his eyes shut. One more try, perhaps. Just to be sure.

_Today, the inside of Sherlock's head looks like the roof of Barts. Moriarty is lying in a puddle of blood. Sherlock strides across quickly, but Moriarty is already sitting up, shaking his head, droplets of red flying from his hair. He's smirking -_

The chime of his phone jerks Sherlock out of his mind palace. With a huff he sits up to grab it, wincing slightly as his trousers further confine his still too-hard cock. Another text, from the same number as before.

**Only a madman keeps repeating the same actions, expecting a different result.  
Am I? Are you?  
JM xx**

Sherlock stares. Two kisses this time. Counting up? No. No, he's avoiding the obvious. _Acknowledge it, Sherlock Holmes._ This new message is just a little too perfect a response to Sherlock's frame of mind. He forces out a regular breath, makes himself think. Forces the words into his mind: _It also makes sense in isolation._ This doesn't mean that whoever is messaging is _that_ good at predicting Sherlock's responses, his actions. 

Can the writer really know him so well? Who does?

John. Mycroft. _Moriarty._ And isn't that a delightful group of people to be considering in this context? Absurd, naturally, each for his own reasons. And yet. Who else? Mary, now ....

Of course, worse would be if it's someone who doesn't know Sherlock well but can deduce his reactions this accurately nevertheless. Worse, and a little thrilling. But not as thrilling as the thought of Moriarty, who both knew him well - understood what it's like inside Sherlock's brain, knew how to fire up his synapses without resorting to chemical aid, how to make his chosen alternative better than ever - _and_ was that good, after all.

(Disconcerting self-knowledge: even Sherlock Holmes is not beyond something as simple as wanting to be understood.)

Of course, perhaps the writer simply has Sherlock's flat bugged.

 _Think it through:_ what's the message referring to, exactly? The same actions: Sherlock searching his mind palace? Hardly. Moriarty's suicide? Moriarty's attempt to force Sherlock into sharing his death? Who knows. The whole of their old game? What is it that's not to be repeated? 

(Or is it? Is it saying Moriarty is going to try the same thing again, even knowing it won't work? - No, of course not. They won't play that game again, not the same way. For one, Moriarty is dead. For another, _boring_ , and Moriarty wouldn't stand for it. And then ... well. Even if it _was_ Moriarty for real, Sherlock knows better now, knows where it was all headed. And that aside, Sherlock wouldn't. Wouldn't let himself, now. He's not so callous any more, not so naïve. He won't repeat himself.)

Sherlock, annoyed, grimaces down at his crotch, which is not getting the message. He pulls a foot under him to ease the strain.

This is pointless.

"You're dead," he mutters. It's all still vivid in his mind, Moriarty's body on that rooftop and Sherlock staring in sheer shock as he finally realised what exactly Moriarty had been leading up to. An ending, because everything must end, and he thought death better than a let-down.

Because repetition - that again! - must grow boring: and so even playing with Sherlock Holmes must become boring in the end. (Sherlock is still rather offended. Offence is easier than the existential horror of Moriarty playing the most exciting game of his life - and anticipating nothing but that it, too, would soon grow dull.)

Sherlock shakes off the depressing thought. He's been in his own version of the dumps enough; he doesn't need Moriarty's.

The point, anyway - Sherlock has _seen_ the body he'd once felt hot and firm and dangerous against his, dead on the ground. Moriarty can't be alive. It makes no sense, practically or psychologically. Moriarty shot himself. Moriarty _wanted_ to die.

(Wanted it, all this time, and Sherlock had never so much as suspected. Planned for it even when he bent Sherlock over a balustrade in a locked museum, making him earn every thrust with his deductions regarding the paintings, real and faked, below.)

Sherlock shakes his head, rakes his hands through his curls. Moriarty is _dead._ But what if he isn't?

A bright, shark-like grin flashes before his mind's eye. _What if I'm no-ot,_ an echo of Moriarty's voice sing-songs in his ear. The sensation of Moriarty's lips on Sherlock's neck shivers through his memory, all the way down to his cock.

"Great," Sherlock mutters to himself. "Clearly I'm losing my grip."

He shifts, his heel pressing more firmly against his perineum. It's just his body. He has it under control.

The phone chimes with several messages, rapid-fire. Same number, no signature this time.

**Still not there yet?  
How did I do it, Sherlock? If I did?  
What did I do?  
Come on! You're not usually this slow.**

And Sherlock knows exactly what Moriarty would have looked like, sounded like, with these words. How he'd have leaned forward abruptly, how his voice would have turned harsh. How, under certain circumstances, he'd have underscored the final word with a grip between Sherlock's legs.

Arousal surges again. Sherlock's hips move without his permission.

"You shot yourself!" Sherlock snaps at the screen, losing his patience - with Moriarty, with himself.

Immediately, another text arrives: 

**And what didn't you do?**

Sherlock freezes, then forces his muscles to unlock. The messages make sense without Sherlock's response in between. They do _not_ mean the writer is listening in, much less that they deduced Sherlock's verbal reaction.

He shakes his head. Distraction, all of it. He needs to think clearly. He needs to get to the bottom of this.

_If lost, begin again, from the start._

"The gun, the shot, the blood. All real; I saw," Sherlock recapitulates. "Not a trick shot. Not a fake injury. A double? No, absurd. It was Moriarty. But how else ..."

Sherlock scowls, drums his fingers against the side of the sofa until the movement becomes irritating. "Moriarty is dead," he says - out loud, for the sake of any potential bugs, trying to sound indifferent. "It's just a copycat. Someone carrying out his instructions, badly. Boring."

It doesn't matter what Sherlock would or wouldn't do with Moriarty now. It's not him.

 _Wro-ong!_ sing-songs Moriarty's voice in the back of his head. But Moriarty can't have faked his death. It simply isn't possible.

Sherlock shakes his head. He looks down at his phone again, at the messages from almost-definitely-not-Moriarty.

**What did I do?  
And what didn't you do?**

What could Sherlock have done on that rooftop, but didn't? What, that could explain anything at all?

He remembers himself standing on that rooftop, staring down at Moriarty's corpse, at the blood pooling around his head. He remembers stepping away, breath heaving and mind racing as he shoved his immediate reaction aside, as he tried to find some way to salvage the situation - for John, if not himself -

And suddenly, it clicks. What did Moriarty do? "You shot yourself," Sherlock breathes, eyes widening. "The gun, the shot, the blood. All real, yes. You meant to shoot yourself. You did shoot yourself. And yet you're alive."

 _And what didn't I do?_ Sherlock types out a reply, sends it off quickly.

**Should have checked for a pulse.  
SH**

"It failed," he tells the probably-nonexistent bugs. "Misfire, sabotage, whatever. You meant to blow out your brains, but you didn't. The bullet didn't go through your brain stem, and you survived. Bleeding and perhaps dying, but not _dead_."

Such things have happened. Admittedly, generally not with a Beretta. But unlikely, even vanishingly unlikely, is not the same as impossible, after all.

Not a copycat, then, behind the video or the texts. Not someone else carrying out a posthumous plan, but the real thing. Moriarty, alive: what will it mean? Sherlock isn't quite the same man he was then - but given that text about repetition, is Moriarty? 

Sherlock's always thought of Moriarty as unchanging, but then, the man was _dead_. The idea of him having grown different, in his own way, is strangely disconcerting. Even if different might mean better, after all: it's been three years since Moriarty's death now - three years, without a single quiver in the web. Sherlock has been paying attention, and there hasn't been a trace. Moriarty _hasn't_ been up to his old tricks. And if there are new ones, Sherlock hasn't seen a flicker of a hint of those, either.

Still, Sherlock won't repeat his mistakes - won't underestimate the danger the man poses. He won't let his awareness of Moriarty's deeds be lost under the thrill of mental stimulation. Well, _certain_ of Moriarty's deeds: not all of them were vile. Sherlock has no objections to someone breaking into the crown jewels, and can't pretend much upset over a faked painting. But he won't let himself, like he did before, be distracted from the true extent of what Moriarty is capable of instigating, aiding and abetting.

To Moriarty, then, murder or forgery was the same - all just a means for distraction.

Sherlock had thought he knew how far to go and where to stop, back then. He hadn't. He won't repeat that error. 

Tempting, but no. 

Sherlock flops down on the sofa again, phone still in his hand. He's getting ahead of himself. No speculating in advance of data. No jumping to conclusions. Not again. With Moriarty, any mistake may prove deadly. But he's ready for it, this time.

Speaking of: that shot might not have been deadly, but the injury was real. No question about that. Sherlock slaps a hand against his forehead as the scenario unfolds for him, as he realises what the inevitable next question has to be.

His phone chimes: a sound file, nothing but clapping. Then a second chime, another text:

**Next question, Sherlock.**

Two minds, in synch: the rush of it sweeps through Sherlock's body, all natural biochemistry, no drugs required. His cock is almost painfully hard now. Sherlock finds himself grinning at the phone, despite everything. It _is_ Moriarty. It has to be. He fires off a quick response.

**Mycroft's people, or yours?  
SH**

Because Moriarty sure as hell didn't walk off that roof by himself. If Moriarty attempted suicide and failed, _someone_ kept his no doubt severely injured body alive. _Next question, indeed._ Who's responsible? A third party is unlikely - who could have known to be in place? Who, but Moriarty's own people, and Mycroft, who was helping Sherlock?

Sherlock hopes it's not Mycroft - that Mycroft didn't keep this from him. But he has to consider it. It's only rational.

An answer to Sherlock's text arrives only a few seconds later.

**Find out. If you can.  
JM x**

The signature is back, kiss and all. And from anyone else, this formality would spell distance, but from Moriarty, the signed version is the more personal one. They're back in business - the game's afoot.

Sherlock's grin fades. What _is_ Moriarty's goal, now? If Moriarty is still suicidal, it will be death, of course. A shared death again. But not brought about in too similar a manner, oh no - that would be dull. If that's the goal, the road there will be an entirely different one. 

_If_ Moriarty is still suicidal. And why shouldn't he be? Nothing's changed. Or has it? 

_Only a madman ..._ No, their old game is not to be repeated. Something had to change. What if it's Moriarty?

There's been no death yet, that he's aware of. Nothing criminal or callously destructive that hints at Moriarty's involvement.

Wishful thinking, all right. Sherlock can't dare hope. This time, Sherlock must be prepared.

Still: his brain is tingling, buzzing with possibilities. His _body_ is buzzing. Whatever happens, whatever this new game may become - unlike before, this time they both know each other. For the first time, they're starting out on an even playing field.

Sherlocks looks down at the text again, at the signature, and allows himself to _want_. Typing with one thumb, he saves the number as "JM" even as he shoves his free hand under his waistband and into his briefs, wraps his fingers around his aching cock.

Doesn't hold back the hiss of relief that sweeps from his lungs, or the drawn-out moan that follows.

If Moriarty does have his flat bugged - well, then he's in for a show.


End file.
